


By the Light of Your Candle

by GwiYeoWeo



Series: the sleeping night [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Gen, Growing Up, Happy Birthday Ignis!, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Not Really Character Death, ardyn appears at the very end for one scene, birthday fic, can be read shippy or platonic, cause everyone lives in the end, cor pops up a couple times, gladio and prompto are mentioned for two sentences, god!Noctis, prince!Ignis, regis is uhhh sorta there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-24 02:57:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17696327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: Something lurks within their walls of silver and gold, but it’s not sinister — never sinister, especially when it gifts Prince Ignis lovely presents on his birthdays.In the meantime, Noctis finds some respite watching over a growing prince.





	By the Light of Your Candle

**Author's Note:**

> So. This was supposed to be nice and cute, about a little boy prince growing up with an old god acting as his guardian but  
> Things sorta… went down a different road LOL ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Prince Ignis Lucis Scientia had just turned ten, ready to blow out the colorful candles on his cake, when he first met the god of legends, though he's spent much of his childhood drinking in the tall tales told by his caretakers and governess. If he had only known all the chaos that would come with his tenth birthday, he would have wished to meet on kinder terms.

His maids had fussed him about, gave great care in tidying up his appearances and ironing out his clothes, as the kitchen staff slaved away over hot stoves and blazing ovens. Ignis had only wanted to sleep for ten more minutes. Begrudgingly, he had thought they could at least spare the birthday boy that much, instead of pulling him across his rooms like a ragdoll to be prettied up.

It had never occurred to him that his life would be put at stake, when he tucked his knees underneath him and raised himself to blow out his candles. When a thundering crash and a maelstrom of bullets rained across the table.

So instead of wasting his wish for a giant chocobo toy, Ignis now wished that his knees weren't bloody and torn; his palms weren't faring any better as they stung with the chill wind biting into the deep scrapes and cuts. He wished that his lungs weren't burning from sprinting across the corridors, from leaping down the stairs and slipping as he fell down the icy and stony steps, from the sobs he was so desperately trying to keep down lest his pursuers find him. He wished he wore that ugly sweater his governess wanted him to wear, because he thought he may freeze to death from the cruel frost and before the assassins found him huddled beneath the garden's holly shrubs. He wished that this year’s winter wasn’t so harsh this season, especially since it would probably be his last.

It's when he heard the crunch of snow, thinking the traitors may actually find him first but hoping they would at least make his death quick, that he opened his tightly shut eyes to see a pair of sparkling blues gazing right at him. He saw a boy not unlike his age and with soft dark hair that cradled his round cheeks, holding a single finger to his small lips, the corners lifted ever so in a reassuring smile.

Ignis stared back dumbfounded, a hundred questions swirling in his mind, though his cold-addled mind knew better than to speak. This stranger-boy was telling him to keep quiet, after all. So Ignis silently nodded, despite how the sharp holly leaves scratched at his cheeks, and kept hunched low to the snow and dirt. But when the footsteps grew closer and the angry voices louder, so did his heart beat faster against his little chest and he squeezed his hands into tiny fists, praying and begging himself to keep his whimpers at bay, the pain of his nails digging into his injured palms a sort of tight tether.

He felt hands, neither warm nor cold, gently take each of his own, and Ignis recognized them as the other child's, carefully unravelling his numb fists so they could hold each other's. A set of thumbs rubbed soothing circles onto the back of his hands, and Ignis couldn't help but relax to the comforting touch, like some spell pulling him away from his stark reality and lulling him into a strange sense of security.

He's unsure of how much time had passed until a familiar voice called out to him, which he immediately recognized it as Cor’s. When he opened his eyes, Ignis saw the boy was gone, and a pair of strong hands hoisted him up and against a broad chest. Despite the tight hold he had on Ignis, his hands seemed to do the opposite and only succeeded in ripping open the floodgates. Unable to contain the fears and panics he had been forced to quell, Ignis broke into a heart-rending sob and cried into the man's jacket, all while grabbing small fistfulls of Cor’s leather lapels. Only when he cracked his eyes open did he pull his hands away, suddenly aware of a pain that was no longer yet still remembering the sting of his wounds that had cut deep into his palms.

Ignis turned his hands to look at them, and there was nothing to hint that he had ever been injured — not even the scrapes on his knees were left. It's then that Ignis remembered the thin black t-shirt and matching cargo shorts, and he wondered how the mysterious boy wasn't at least shivering from the wintry weather. Wondered how the boy had whispered to him when Ignis never recalled hearing, “Happy Birthday, Ignis.”

  


 

“Thank you,” he said three years later, at the small figure sitting by the fountain.

The spring evening had just turned a bit humid that night, replacing the crisp air with a certain mugginess that he hated, as the seasons cycled into summer. Unlike Ignis, the local fauna welcomed the warmer change, as early fireflies began emerging and sporadically lighting up for the setting sun, frogs croaking in a lethargic but soothing drone. The songbirds, however, were quiet and more inclined to roost for the night.

“What for?” the boy asked, swirling a lazy finger through the fountain water and teasing the small Koi with empty promises of food.

“You shouldn't do that. They'll bite you,” Ignis warned, sitting beside him on the fountain's edge. In the sun's remaining light, he could make out the cool purples and warm oranges painted on the other's face, mostly obscured by the black fringes of his hair. But despite the darkness, Ignis recognized the blue of his eyes. They're not quite as deep as he remembered, but in the fading sunlight they almost looked to be glowing, like strange flames dancing beneath cool waters.

“Oh, I'm aware,” he laughed, softly, lightly. A little wistful and fleeting.

They sat there for a while, Ignis watching the last flames of the sky turn to dark blue, while the other gently prodded at the fishes’ mouths. It's a comfortable silence, though there's a myriad of things he wanted to say swirling in Ignis’ head. It had been three years and nearly two seasons since he last saw his rescuer — the little boy who had appeared out of nowhere to lead Cor to the holly bushes.

Though according to the Marshall, it had been a fully-grown man in a clean, crisp suit and not, according to Ignis’ memory, a child whose only shared resemblance was the black hair and dark clothes. And that it had originally been out of suspicion, because it made little sense for anyone to not be in a frenzy after an assassination attempt _and_ to look as immaculate as he did despite all the chaos, that Cor followed the stranger to a young trembling Ignis, yelling _‘Halt!’_ and _‘Stop!’_ all the while he was chasing him. And that it had infuriated him to no end to see the fluttering tail of the man's suit jacket around the corner, casually walking down the corridor, while Cor had to _sprint_ to even keep pace with him.

“For that day,” Ignis finally spoke up, breaking the shared silence, “when you found me three years ago. Thank you.”

“Think nothing of it, Prince Ignis.”

“Can I at least know your name, since you have mine?” The stars began to emerge, bright little things shining against a canvas of black now. He looked away from the sky to look at —

Nothing.

He felt a whisper against his ear, not a warm breath but only a spring-summer breeze.

“Noctis.”

Or so the winds told him.

As Ignis returned to his rooms, he wondered when they would meet again. Would it be another three years? Perhaps five? Then he realized they may never meet again at all, and he suddenly felt a wave of disappointment at the idea. There were scores of questions he wanted to ask Noctis, yet he may never get the chance to, and he felt strangely bitter about that. He was a curious child, he knew that about himself, and a scholar in the making; but this fascination for this old god was more than just a thirst for knowledge. But beyond that, he wasn't sure.

Still, he felt nothing but elation when he saw Noctis at the fountain the next evening, with one hand tossing feed to the Koi.

  


 

It’s another assassination attempt. On his birthday. Again. Bitterly, he thought of how _wonderful_ a gift it was, to be covered in sticky champagne and savory meat sauce as he trudged through the dark bowels of the Citadel, sneezing every so often at the dust crawling up his nose.

It had been yet another celebration, broadcasted throughout the kingdom that Prince Ignis Lucis Scientia would be turning twenty on this very fine day, tabloids and gossip magazines with their _‘Teen to King: Big Two-Zero!’_ or _‘From Baby to BABE’_ and whatever ridiculous titles the publishers came up with. Despite the publicity, it had been a mostly tame affair, as per his request, but that had not stopped their political opponents from slipping in and using his birthday as a cover and distraction.

Gladio and Prompto had intercepted the assassins by the sliver of their blades, Gladio kicking up their table to provide a temporary shield against the rain of daggers. Unfortunately, that had sent the food and drinks flying everywhere, much of it finding purchase in Ignis’ royal clothes, meticulously tailored for this very occasion. Through the chaos of steel and glass and fine china, Ignis had almost wanted to throw himself into the fray — he was a fury in his own right, having trained under the stern eye of Cor himself — until he had felt a hand curl around the base of his neck, a cool weight that instilled him with a familiar comfort spanning ten years. He hadn’t needed to look to know it was Noctis, and he had silently obeyed the man’s insistent tug, pulling him out and away from the carnage. It was by no small miracle or accident that Ignis had made it out unscathed and untouched, the protection of a god blanketing him in a divine blessing he held all his faith in.

It was how he now ended up in this dusty old passage, barely wide enough to fit a single person through. He had learned about these secret tunnels, heard of them by word-of-mouth, by his father and grandfather and so forth; though knowledge of many of these secret paths had been lost to the years, leaving much to be discovered again. They were old channels, used in times of peril — such as, say, an assassination attempt on the Crown — to escape into safety or lead their pursuers astray. Or, in not so ancient times, used by curious princes looking to explore the secrets of an old kingdom, led hand-in-hand by a mysterious god.

Noctis looked back at him, a young face mimicking Ignis’ own age, his silky hair and still youthful cheeks caressed by the soft glow of dancing blue lights, of tiny crystalline magics that the god liked to command. He smiled, small but heartfelt.

“An exciting birthday party, Prince?” His voice cut through the quiet of Ignis’ footsteps, and only his footsteps — Noctis’ being absent — clicking against the stone pathway.

Ignis pushed back a cobweb hanging dangerously close to his face, the thin silky threads adding to his already sticky fingers. “Indeed. Though I hope Gladio and Prompto are faring alright.”

“They’ll be fine, I’m sure. I’ve seen them fight.”

Ignis didn’t doubt it, but he couldn’t help but worry about possible casualties. No doubt some guests would be injured, or worse. At least his father would be alright; he had managed to see Clarus escort the King out, before he let Noctis spirit him away from the violence.

Noctis pressed on some odd bricks here and there until the stone wall to their left shifted, the faintest of runes webbing and lighting through the cracks, followed by a terrible groan as the bricks shifted into an opening. Ignis squinted at the sudden onslaught of light, as his eyes had grown accustomed to the softer blues of Noctis’ magic, and lifted his hand to shield himself from the bright rays.

The old — young, he supposed, if going by appearances — god wrapped a hand around his, ignoring the dirt and grime that coated his skin, and led them out. Spring came early this year, and Ignis saw the new greens of the grass, felt the soft give of dirt rather than the solid tile or marble of the Citadel underneath his step, and when his vision finally adjusted, he saw the groomed trees and hedges that marked the way to the outdoor training grounds. He realized they now stood on the opposite end of the palace, a good distance away from the attack.

It was empty, though, surprisingly so, as at least one or two recruits would be seen here at any given time of the day. Then again, the assassins must have put all the guards on alert, sending most of them to the scene of the attack.

“We’ve never gone this way before,” Ignis said, glancing back at the tunnel they had emerged from, its hidden entrance already knitting itself back shut.

“I wanted to show you this one today. Just, this wasn’t the way I intended it.” Noctis shrugged, before tugging him along again. “Come, come. There’s still more to see.”

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a nagging voice told him that there were probably more pressing matters to attend to, such as turning his attention to the assassins. But damn it, today was his birthday and honestly, there was no safer place than at an ancient god’s side. _‘Ah, what the hell.’_

So he let himself be guided by Noctis’ whims, which apparently meant following him to a pair of training dummies. Ignis wasn’t sure where he was going with this. The training grounds were a common sight, where he sparred with Cor and his Crownsguard, typically with Gladio while Prompto went to target practice. But knowing Noctis, there was something else he had planned.

Noctis turned to him then, a pleasant smile perched on his lips as he held out both his hands in a glimmer of crystal sparks, the magic collecting and making itself solid into a pair of daggers. He urged for Ignis to take them, but he couldn’t help but take a moment to admire them in Noctis’ hands. Just by sight alone, the craftsmanship looked impeccable, the crossguards an intricate metalwork of winding steel that wove together, a few gems inlaid into the guards and pommel, and the blades themselves gleamed with a beautiful but sharp edge. Ignis took one into his hands, testing the weight and grip of it.

It felt _unnaturally_ natural, like an extension of his own self.

“An alloy of mythril and orichalcum. Don’t ask how, I’m no blacksmith and neither do I remember,” Noctis said, watching him toss the dagger into the air.

“Truly?” Ignis almost stabbed himself, barely catching the dagger in time. Alloys made with mythril or orichalcum were feasible, though costly and difficult. But made with both? Nigh impossible. He wondered what ancient techniques were employed to craft such beauties, wondered why such knowledge had disappeared.

He faced away from Noctis and hrew the dagger straight at a training dummy’s chest, the blade striking true as it embedded itself into wood and cotton. Ignis lifted his hand toward the dagger, which disappearing in a flurry of sparks before reappearing in his palm again. The sensation sent his heart a flutter, and the ease that came with the dagger was smooth as Altissian silk.  

“Truly. There was a weaponsmith in Galahd who made them for me and vanished right after — could never find him in the end.” Noctis took Ignis’ other hand and pressed the hilt into his palm, though Ignis never failed to notice how void of warmth the god always seemed to be. “But obviously I don’t need these anymore. So,” he said, wrapping the Prince’s fingers around the grip, “I’m giving these to you.”

Ignis drew his lips together in a tight line, eyes tracing every delicate curve and edge of the metalwork. “I can’t. This… Something of this is too —”

“Your Highness!”

Ignis looked up to see he was alone, no trace of Noctis but the daggers in his hands. Shaking his head, he pushed a weary sigh past his lips and turned around to see Cor power walking his way. Sometimes, Ignis found himself disliking the god’s whimsical nature, of coming and going whenever he pleased. But he supposed, Noctis wouldn’t be Noctis then.

As he walked to meet Cor halfway, he felt a pair of hands ghost his shoulders, heard the whisper passed by the winds,

“Happy Birthday, Ignis.”  

  


 

Ignis picked up a torch, followed the spiralling staircase down, down, _down_ into the darkness. He knew of dungeons, the cells hidden beneath the Citadel, remnants of old history past. But he never thought they dug so deep into the earth that they met the abyss.

He followed the winding stairs as his knees buckled, as the aches in his legs made him pause for breath, until finally there were no more steps but the ever-present darkness, the only light the waning flames of his ill-lit torch. He wished he had Noctis’ magic, the comforting warm blues of his light. But there was no use wishing now, no point in going back.

 

_(“Stop.” Noctis told him, pulling his hand away from the hidden runes. “That’s not a place for little princes to explore.”_

_“If not princes, then how about kings?” Ignis asked, lips drawn into a slight pout._

_“No.”_

_“What? Why ever not?”_

_“Because” — Ignis didn’t understand what that hollow gaze meant, didn’t notice the darkness behind his strange expression — “nothing good comes from chasing long dead ghosts.”)_

 

Ignis was sure he would choke on his own heart, his pulse a strong, rapid beat in his throat. He slid his back along one of the pillars, let himself fall onto the filthy floor, let the parchments fall out of his fingers as he sank his hands into his hair. He wanted to cry. To scream, maybe. He didn’t know what he wanted. Swallowing thickly, he pushed himself off the floor and carefully approached the center, each quiet echo of his step an explosion in his ears. To the remnants of old shattered bones bound in rusted shackles, to the flat stone stained dark with —  

“I told you not to come, Prince.”

His breath caught in his chest, fingers stilled as it traced the sharp edges of the ruins. Ignis lifted his eyes, gaze meeting Noctis across from him. Suddenly, his youth was replaced with a bone-deep exhaustion, fatigue haunting the lines of his eyes, a weariness that marked his milleniums bound by old blood and ancient curses. And above all, he looked guilty.

It was Ignis who should be feeling guilty. No, it should be the _cowards_ who condemned this poor man, who —

“I’m sorry.” Noctis said, voice a bare whisper. “You shouldn’t have to see this.”

“Sorry? _Sorry?_ Unless I am horribly mistaken, you are not the one who should be sorry, it is they — your Council! Your own Shield drove his sword through your heart! Damned his own King!”

Noctis winced, and suddenly, he was no longer an ancient god, no longer a mighty King turned martyr. He was like a child, chastised by his own parent. And Ignis wanted to leap over the grave, to wrap his arms around this dear soul and console him and spill all words of apologies. But he didn't, the stone separating them like a mile-wide chasm.

“I failed, and this was the only option left. One life for a kingdom, the world. A reasonable trade, we all figured.”

“But still! Surely, there should have been another way, anything other than trapping your soul just because you couldn’t kill your broth—”

“Maybe,” Noctis said too quickly, _snapping._ He tensed, realizing the sharpness of his voice. “But what’s done is done, it’s all in the past. And there’s nothing that you or I can do to change that. So please, Ignis, turn back. Forget all this.”

“I’ll burn this place.” Ignis stood resolute, hands clasped tightly at his sides. “I’ll… I’ll gather what’s left of you. And give you a proper burial. You deserve that much, at the very least.”

“Oh, Ignis. The thought is a gift enough, even though today is _your_ birthday.”

“But to leave it all like this, surely…”

“It’s best to leave the ghosts in the past, Ignis. To leave me as I am.”

 _Because nothing good comes from chasing long dead ghosts,_ he remembered. Bitterly.

 

“Were you lonely, all this time?” Ignis asked, drawing the heavy blanket tighter around his shoulders, gazing at the glittering stars from his balcony. Noctis was unbothered by the cold, as always.

“Yes.” He leaned his head on Ignis’ shoulder, his eyes all soft with warmth. He picked at the cold remains of the twenty-first birthday cake Ignis had saved for him. “But you make for good company.”

And that comment, Ignis decidedly believed, was a birthday gift in itself.  


 

 

The nights grew longer, the daemons stronger — until one day, morning never came. Insomnia had their Wall, powered by the divine Crystal, Lestallum their technology and electricity to keep their lights. Other areas, however, were less fortunate, their small towns overrun by shadows and Scourge. Their people fled to the larger cities, to the Crown City or Lestallum, scrambling to find refuge from the oncoming darkness.

Ignis sat at his study, leafing through the documents and proposals of expansion, of delegating new areas to the sudden influx of refugees. Noctis had been oddly absent as of late; and when the god did decide to show his face, his eyes hid something behind their steel-blue gaze, and it tore at Ignis trying to decipher it. He didn’t know which picked at his nerves more: the piles of paperwork or Noctis trying to protect Ignis from whatever knowledge he was hiding.

With a groan, he slid his glasses off his face and rubbed at his tired eyes, leaning his back against his stiff seat. He needed a break.

There was a shift in the air, the bare echo of magic when something cool pressed against his cheek. “You look like hell, Prince.”

Ignis sighed, his eyes remaining closed, as he reached to take the canned coffee but not without giving Noctis’ hand a light squeeze of gratefulness. “A daemon infestation will do that,” he sighed, pressing the drink to his lips.

“Then” — hesitation, and the same tone Noctis had been using to hide his secrets — “good thing I double as an exterminator.”

Ignis frowned. Did he know how to stop all this? Did he come up with a solution? It wasn’t such a far-fetched idea, considering the age-old god; he must have some sort of experience with all this. “And you know how to —” Ignis opened his eyes, saw a grown man with stubble lining across his jawline. “Oh.”

It was unmistakably Noctis, though his once blue eyes were more of a grey now, all the softness of youth replaced by taut skin and hollowed cheeks. And a weariness that reflected a burden spanning over milleniums. He looked ages more exhausted than Ignis felt.

He knew not what all this meant, why Noctis suddenly seemed so vulnerable, and he ran his fingers over his own chin, gesturing to the facial hair on Noctis. “This is new.”

“Does it bother you? I used to keep it shaved. Back then.” _When I was alive_ , he implied. Noctis raised a hand over his face, the stubble disappearing with the passing of his fingers. “Better?”

“Different.” But Ignis wouldn’t deny he could see the sharpness of his jawline better. He wasn’t sure which he found more handsome, however. “But… why? You’ve always appeared to me according to how, well. According to my own age.”

“I know. I just thought, maybe you’d like to see how I was. Before I died, when I was still…”

“Somnus.”

“Yes.”

“And why the occasion? I’m sure today’s no special anniversary, unless I’m mistaken about something.”

“Exterminator.” Noctis dragged a hand down his face, and the gesture made him look so much older than he looked to be. He chewed on his lip, opened his mouth to speak, closed them again. He stood at the window, peering out into the darkness when four years ago the sun would still linger at the horizon. “I’m… Let's say I'm here to give you an early birthday present.” A pause. “And my farewells.”

Ignis couldn't see his face, but the god’s voice was quiet and strained, and not at all appropriate for one presenting a gift. His words were hiding yet another secret.

“I don’t —”

“I failed to stop it the first time, and there will be no third time,” Noctis said quickly, “It's why I’ve been biding my time, why I _and_ the Crystal have been biding our time.” He stared into the night, his back still turned to Ignis. “It takes a god to kill another god, one immortal to kill another immortal. And maybe, a brother to kill his own.”

Ignis shot up from his seat, no longer able to stand this heavy weight in his heart, the unknown fear that threatened to spill tears from his eyes. “Wait, Noctis, slow down. I don’t understand why this is goodbye, or this nonsense about gods and immortals.”

But he understood, and he knew too well what Noctis’ words meant. He had known the day he found his tomb, when he had read the terrible writings depicting blood sacrifices and tragic prophecies.

And Noctis knew what Ignis knew.

He turned to face the Prince, placing a cold hand around his arm. “Thank you, Ignis. It was fun watching you grow, having you here with me. You’ll be a fine King one day.”

Ignis shook his head, his heart sinking a little lower with each turn. “Noctis, no. _Don't._ I'll find another way, just — just please don't go. I beg of you, give me time and I can find —”

His words. Cries? His cries were cut off, and he sobbed into Noctis’ shoulder, the god's arms holding him tight with one hand threading through the young man's hair. “I'm sorry, Ignis. I'd stay if I could, and that's the truth, believe me. But I'm out of time. _You'll_ run out of time if I don't do this. And I can't let my favorite prince kick the bucket yet.”

Ignis wrapped his arms that much tighter, refusing to let him go. Maybe it was selfish of him; no, it was definitely selfish of him. If he didn't let go, then Noctis’ sacrifice would have been for naught, all those centuries trapped within the old ruins of this city built up for nothing. Lucis, the world, covered in darkness all because of one selfish, stupid prince unwilling to let an old soul finally rest.

To be at peace. Ignis blinked and swallowed his tears, quieting his trembling shoulders as the thought suddenly sobered him. He could let go, not for his kingdom but for Noctis. For the old soul wandering through limbo, not alive yet not allowed to die. For Noctis who looked so weary, _so done,_ because his last fractures of resolve had worn themselves out, and he could at last free himself of the chains that bound him here.

And Noctis deserved a proper sleep, didn't he?

Ignis arms went slack, but it didn't help the cold pit hollowing itself out in his chest. In his heart.

Noctis thanked him with a chaste kiss, pressing his lips to the crown of his hair. “I want to say this now, since I won't be able to next week. But,” he whispered softly, tenderly, pulling away just enough to meet their gazes, “Happy Birthday. And I hope you like my present.”

Noctis ran his fingers across Ignis’ eyes, wiping the last tears from his lashes. One blink and he was gone, leaving nothing but cold air in his wake. Ignis fell to his knees then, pressed the heels of his palm against his eyelids and opened his mouth to wail —

The entire Citadel rumbled. His body instinctually recoiled into itself, tensing against the shockwave of raw, primal magic that racked through the walls and up the floors, and he was left curling underneath the shatter of crystals and fractals of light that rushed into every crevice and corner.

He did not think. He ran.

  


 

“Ardyn.”

Noctis stood before the dais, the Crystal thrumming and radiating with power at his back. One hundred and fourteen phantom weapons fanned across the air, all glowing with an ominous blue aura, all with a sharpness that guaranteed pain or death. In any other circumstance, Ignis would think it beautiful, if the overwhelming magic did not bear down on his body, did not constrict his lungs and nail his feet to the floor.

“Hello, my darling Somnus.”

Red. One hundred and fourteen. All aimed at the throne, at Noctis, all with the same deadly edge.

“Now.” The man, the daemon, raised an arm. His weapons moved in tandem, like a puppeteer touching their strings, and pointed death's fingers at Noctis. “Me and my Scourge versus you and your precious Crystal, just like dear old times.”

But Noctis looked away from Ardyn, attention drawn from the blades and danger, and Ignis almost missed the fondness in his eyes.

_“Noctis!”_

A brilliant smile, drowned out by a collision of red and blue.

  


 

His gift was magnificent, so beautiful that not only Ignis but the entire world weeped.

The dawn blazed across the horizon and bathed all of Eos in its light. Many wept for its warmth, for their salvation. But not Ignis. His tears fell for his own sadness, for his loss — and for Noctis’ happiness, for his well-deserved rest.

  


 

Ignis turned thirty on a cold and crisp morning. Five years with not a single assassination attempt among all those birthdays made him a content man. Content but not happy. Five years of rebuilding and recovering, five years of readjusting to life with the dawn, five years of fear that maybe it would all happen again and the daemons would return with the night. It had been exhausting, emotionally and mentally. And physically too, working overtime with his father and the Council to take back what had been stolen from them during those years of darkness.

The outlying lands of Leide and Cleigne and Duscae had all been ravaged, cities and towns still many abandoned and destroyed. Both Lestallum and Insomnia were at near full capacity, even after all their relief efforts and aids during the past five years. But slowly, their lives were knitting back together, Eos returning to her former glory as life began to bloom once more.

Ignis, however, only wished he could move on with the rest of the world.

Ignoring the morning chill, he sat in the gardens, at the edge of the reconstructed fountain with its newly stocked Koi, and waited for the dawn with a little cupcake in his lap. He still held fastly to all the gifts Noctis had given him throughout his birthdays, the old stuffed toys sitting by his dresser, the texts and books displayed proudly at his desk, the daggers hidden away in his arsenal among the other weapons bestowed upon him by the very same man.

So he waited, as he did on his last several birthdays, to greet the morning's light. To receive Noctis’ final gift.

Once the faintest rays of gold and soft blues peeked into the sky, Ignis picked up the cupcake, perched on its little plate, and lit the single candle set into the frosting. He lifted it in a toast, waited until the flame blurred into the fiery reds and oranges of the rising sun, made his wish just as he had always done, and snuffed the candle out.

He managed not to cry this time, at least.

“Hello, Noctis.” His whispers turned to smoky breaths, billowing out into thin wisps in the cold air and clouding his view of the warm sun. “Your present is as wonderful as always. I'm afraid there's no cake this time, so I hope you'll be amenable to this little one here.”

Ignis placed the cupcake back down, to where Noctis had used to sit. He spared a glance at the fish, remembered the fondness Noctis held for them, before pushing himself off to start his morning.

When he turned to catch one last glimpse of dawn, he was utterly blinded.

Not by the golden light of the sun's rays or the white billowing clouds overhead but by the darkest black he's ever laid eyes on, darker than the perpetual night of the Scourge itself, but infinitely more gorgeous and beautiful and beloved than any other color he knew. His breath hitched and he realized that, not unfortunately, he ended up crying on this birthday after all.

And those hands and arms and face — they were warm. _Human._ That warmth, that dazzling smile and those darling blue eyes, were worth all the birthday wishes in the world. Ignis laughed into the air, wet with tears but filled with joy, before burying his face into Noctis’ chest, feeling the rumble of his voice as those familiar words were offered.

“Happy Birthday, Ignis.”

**Author's Note:**

> And once more!: Happy Birthday, Iggy :)  
> You deserve all the love and presents and ebony ;~; I'm so happy you're in my life T__T


End file.
